


Silver

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:57:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6911779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPOILERS</p><p>just a little thing about Sylvie. Domestic, random, snapshot of her life</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



“Have you seen my jeans?” Sylvie asks, hopping on one foot to get her sock on. 

Athos just grunts, still face down in the sea of the duvet, the many cushions Athos collects, the quit Porthos made them, plus Jamie and Mattie’s ‘softies’, the fluffy blankets Sylvie’s father gave each kid for Christmas last year. Jamie’s lying on top of him, legs crossed, school uniform probably picking up the smell of whiskey and sweat that Athos is soaked in this morning. Sylvie finds Athos’ jeans, and Mattie’s pyjama bottoms. But not her own clothes. 

“Mathew! Come pick up your jim jams!” Sylvie yells. “Jamie, get off your father and go put your shoes on. We’re leaving, we’re gonna be late.”

“Mum, you’re still in your knickers,” Mattie points out, coming in with a slice of toast. He picks up his pyjamas and wanders out again. 

“Have you put your homework in your bag?” Sylvie shouts after him, rummaging through the pile of crap Athos dumped on the floor last night when he was drunkenly looking for something. 

She comes up victorious. She pulls her jeans on, scoops Jamie up, and heads out, doing her belt up on the way. 

“Bye papa!” Jamie calls. 

“Love you Athos,” Sylvie remembers to say. 

She grabs her bag, pushes Jamie’s shoes onto the wrong feet, swaps them. 

“Jamie! Roo!”

Jamie comes out of the living-room with his school bag, ready to go. Rose comes out in her pyjamas, on her phone, decidedly not ready. Sylvie sighs. 

“Rose, go wake your father and tell him you’re going to need a lift in, then get bloody dressed. Come on, boys, we’re going.”

“Bye love!” Athos shouts hoarsely from the bedroom, as Sylvie shuts the door. 

Sylvie laughs, as the boys climb into the car, fondness for her daft partner washing over her. She loves that stupid man and his stupid hangovers and his cushion obsession. 

*

He’s cooking when she gets home in the evening. She’s only got Roo with her, the boys home already. She stops in the dining room to kiss their heads and say hello then follows Rose into the kitchen. 

“But Dad, I want to go,” Rose is saying. 

“Syl already said no, didn’t she?” Athos says. “No. The answer is no. You’re seeing Porthos. He was complaining that he hasn’t seen you in months, last night. Do you have any idea how whiny the man can be?”

“Ask Lena if she wants to come meet Porthos with you. He’ll probably take you to get cake, Lena likes cake, doesn’t she?” Sylvie says, sorting through the post on the table until she finds her pay-slip, already torn open. 

“They got it right this month, I sent a screenshot to Porthos to check it,” Athos says. 

Sylvie puts the pay-slip back. If Porthos has checked and okay-ed it, it’s fine. Porthos has a head for numbers. 

“Lena’s not a ‘she’,” Rose says, slumping at the table, tapping at her phone. “Ze says ze wants to be, um… agender? Or nuetrois. I can’t remember.”

“Okay,” Sylvie says. 

“Bring her to Porthos, then,” Athos says, softly. “He knows a lot about that kind of thing.”

“Yeah,” Rose says, frowning. “Lena… Mum, if I’m gay and I sort of like Lena, and she- I mean ze, is not a girl…?”

“You can be whatever you like, Roo,” Sylvie says. 

“Identity and desire do not always match love and commitment,” Athos says. “But with gender, especially with this kind of thing, I think it’s more a case of the language and labels we use being out of step with reality. If you want to identify as a lesbian and still like non-binary people, that is fine.”

“Cool,” Rose says. “Lena says okay. Shall I tell Porthos?”

“No,” Athos says, frowning. “He’s out of the country for a few days. Use Facebook or Skype or something cheaper.”

Sylvie, sensing a loosening of tension in Rose, goes to Athos, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder to get a look at what he’s cooking. It’s pasta sauce, and smells good. He twists so he can kiss her hello. 

“Good day?” he asks. 

“Yes, actually. Not bad,” Sylvie says. “My students liked making masks, and we’re building a three dimensional map in the classroom which they love. Georgraphy topic is the best.”

“Art is the best,” Athos says. “You’re the best. This is done. Mat needed help with his maths homework.”

“After dinner, then,” Sylvie says, pulling away. “Boys! Hands, dinner!”

*

Sylvie loves sitting with Constance, just listening to her. There’s something vibrant about Constance, but at the same time she’s one of the most relaxing people to be around. She’s currently complaining about her year tens, who have a prank war going on that keeps exploding in blue paint. Literally. Constance has a smurf hand. 

“I look like I belong in your classroom,” Constance says. 

“You are in my classroom,” Sylvie points out, waving an arm to indicate her art room. It’s currently covered in year fours’ Dali-esque clocks. 

“Could you paint me the right colour?” Constance asks, then laughs, leaning over to touch Sylvie’s arm. “At least I wasn’t in front. Johnny has blue hair.”

“John Resner? Oh Lord,” Sylvie says, laughing.

John Resner is the Year eight maths teacher, and he’s the most boring, conservative, suit-wearing, serious person Sylvie knows. Constance is the only person who calls him ‘Johnny’. 

“Yeah, it was spectacular. I wish they’d stop, though, this has been going on all term. Enough is enough.”

“We’ve got a long bank holiday weekend next week, that’ll settle them a little,” Sylvie says. 

“Hopefully. It’s summer term, though.”

Constance turns serious for a bit, then, and they talk about strategies for dealing with bad behaviour. Constance seems to have a lot of students who need it this term. Sylvie’s mind wanders to Athos, wondering what he’s doing. Lunch time means he’s probably vacuuming the house, unless Porthos is back from his trip in which case Athos is probably bedding him enthusiastically. Sylvie snorts, turning her attention back to Constance. 

*

The rhythm and beat of running steadies Sylvie’s mind. The way her feet hit the tarmac path that loops the park, the steady forcing of her breath, the way her body is controlled. It’s one of her favourite things. She’s been at it long enough that she’s no longer pacing herself, she’s just going for it, running and running. Her legs are aching a little and she should finish after this loop, but the head space is too good to give up. 

*

“I love you,” Sylvie tells Athos, holding his chin, looking long and hard at him. 

He looks back, so much trust in his eyes. His hands are bound, as he kneels before her. Sylvie smiles, running her fingers over the soft rope. Athos breathes in, eyes dropping. Sylvie finds the knot and undoes it, letting his hands free, and spreads her legs, leaning back against the mountain of pillows. The children are asleep, her lessons are planned until the end of term, she’s done her marking and prep, she’s had a run. She draws Athos’ hand to her lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles, then places it on her belly. 

“I love you,” she says again, as he ducks his head and uses the hand she’s not holding to push her thigh wider, spread her open for his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More random snippets of Sylvie's life. I may write more, I may not. Who knows? I don't.

Sylvie gets home to find Porthos lying on the living-room floor, all three of her children plus her husband lying on top of him. She leans in the doorway, smiling, watching Athos curled up like a kitten, tucked safely into Porthos’ body. Roo is lying with her head on Porthos’ stomach, texting. Mattie is lying across Porthos’ shoulders, half-strangling him. Jamie’s in the cradle of his hips, leaning back into his thighs, asleep. 

“Comfy?” Sylvie asks. 

“Very,” Athos says. 

“Yup,” Roo says. 

Mattie gurgles. 

“I think she meant me, guys,” Porthos rumbles from beneath the pile of them, and Sylvie laughs, bending into the doorframe with it.

“I did,” she says. “Are we getting a Porthos-made dinner, tonight?”

“We are not,” Athos says, sounding bad tempered about it. “Porthos is buggering off again.”

“Dad,” Rose says. “Swear jar.”

“We’re not doing that any more, not since you started knicking the money from it,” Athos says. 

Porthos starts to hum out of tune. Sylvie already had a suspicion that taking money from the jar had been Porthos’ idea, now she’s sure it was. Rose glances Porthos’ way, affirming it. 

“Porthos,” Sylvie says, sighing. 

“It wasn’t my fault, I didn’t tell her to do it!” Porthos says, sitting up, bodies going sprawling around her. “She just… did. Once the idea was there. I only told her a story.”

“You and your stories,” Athos says. “If my children turn into thieves because of you…”

“At least only Jim knows how to pick the locks,” Porthos says. 

“James knows what?” Athos says. 

“Only James,” Porthos corrects, getting to his feet. “Rose couldn’t get the hang of it. Hello, Silver.”

He comes lumbering over to embrace her, kissing her cheeks. She’s already amused, and he’s so warm and they haven’t seen much of him lately, so she forgives him teaching her children such things. 

“You’re a menace,” she says, into his hair. 

“I know. Didn’ really do much, just windin’ him up,” Porthos says, pulling back with a grin. 

Everyone else is still on the floor. Jamie, having woken up not esconced in Porthos’ arms, is making grumpy noises and trying to get into Athos’ lap. Mattie’s annoying Rose. Sylvie goes through to the kitchen, Porthos on her heels. 

“I only taught Jim how to do them little baby padlocks,” Porthos says. “Real easy. He’s no master lock pick. And I really didn’t mean to suggest Roo take money from the swear jar. I think it might be me she got the idea from, though. I used to take bus money from it.”

“You didn’t tell her why you needed bus money?” Sylvie asks, cradling his face. He shakes his head, looking a little miserable. 

“She said sommat about my quick fingers.”

“You did what you had to, what you knew. It’s fine, Porthos. We’re not angry with you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos says, cheering up and going to the kettle. “Cup of tea? I have time, before I have to go.”

“Where are you off to this time?”

“Holiday this time. Aramis is taking me to Spain, to meet his sister. I’m excited about it. I’ve never done meet the family bit,” Porthos says. 

“That’s nice.”

“Athos is grumpy about it. Thinks I love Aramis the best.”

“Do you?”

“Dunno. He’s important. Not like Athos can give me that, is it? I love him, and he’s my best friend, and I like sex with him, but it’s not like he wants anything more.”

“Okay.”

Sylvie sips her tea and plans her evening. It is going to involve reassuring Athos that he’s important and matters, to both herself and Porthos. Porthos, Sylvie often thinks, has no idea exactly what it is that Athos offers him and wants in return. Then again, she’s sure that neither she nor Athos has any real clear understanding of what Porthos offers and wants. Aramis does, she knows. Aramis understands Porthos, the way she understands Athos. The way Athos understands her. 

**

Constance comes into Sylvie’s classroom on Friday, while Sylvie’s finishing up her prep. She just needs to make copies, but that’ll wait till Monday. It’ll have to- the copier’s broken again. Sylvie’s working in her room instead of the staff-room because she’s avoiding Marcheaux. Again. 

“I made another complaint,” Constance says, slumping into one of the student chairs. 

“About?” Sylvie asks. 

“Marcheaux. I got Treville to back me up, this time. Maybe that’ll do something. I cannot stand that man any more, Sylvie.”

Sylvie nods. Constance has started a campaign against Marcheaux. Sylvie doesn’t have the energy for that, so she just ignores it, and makes Marcheaux a non-entity in her life. She can listen to Constance complaining for about ten minutes, then she knows she’ll get fed up and have to nudge her away onto a new topic. Constance doesn’t say anything else, though, she just sits there, looking like a sad puppet with its strings broken. 

“Right,” Sylvie says, when she’s finished and Constance still looks miserable. “Friday. Let’s go drink.”

Constance perks up a little. She tucks herself into Sylvie’s side, linking their arms, and sighs a lot until Sylvie offers to drive them. 

They all drink at the same pub, the entire faculty usually showing up Friday night. And other nights, really. Sylvie claims them a private table, which will firmly indicate to their colleagues that they wish to be left alone. Constance goes for drinks. They sit in silence for a while, until the waiter brings over nachos. 

“Ooh, good idea,” Sylvie says. 

“I thought so,” Constance says, tucking in with more enthusiasm than she’s shown yet today. 

“Bad day?” Sylvie asks, when Constance has eaten and drunk enough to manage a smile. 

“Terrible. I had two students start a fight. Honest to god, they were proper going at each other. Then I had a student fall asleep, and a group task that apparently inspired nothing so much as a paper aeroplane battle. Just a lot of terrible lessons. Two of which were definitely my fault.”

“Wow. That is a terrible Friday.”

“Yeah. And then bloody Marcheaux had a go at Clairmont, and Claire’s still in his first year and he’s sick and Marcheaux was so, so unkind. And homophobic and just a complete twat head.”

“So you leapt to the defence of the puppy. He reminds you of d’Artagnan, doesn’t he?”

“A little. He’s less… he’s brash, like Charlie, but a little more timid, and much easier to hurt.”

“We’ll look after him. He’s a good teacher, he’s doing really well with the year sixes.”

They talk work for a bit longer, then Sylvie goes to get in more drinks, and they change to gossiping about teachers, and then to gossiping about celebrities and then to TV shows they both watch. By the time Athos shows up to drive them both home, walking over so he can use Sylvie’s car and it won’t be left at the pub over night, they’re both firmly drunk and dancing in the middle of the pub, locked in one another’s arms, cuddling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grumpycathos prompted: a family outing. Here you go, love!

“Oh my lord, do you remember being twenty?” Sylvie says, laughing, taking a sip of her wine. Aramis winks at her. “God, don’t! Do you have any idea how many times I fell for that? The charming smirk, and- yes, there! That little head toss, the ducking and the eyes, the hint of vulnerability.”

She laughs again, leaning back to let Mattie climb into her lap. They’re out on the hill, picnic-ing, a ‘family get together’ that consists of her and Athos with James and Mattie, Aramis and Porthos, d’Artagnan and Constance. The kids are flying a kite, d’Artagnan running after them, Constance supervising and photographing. 

“I had a lot of practise wooing,” Aramis says, grinning. 

“Shut up, you arse,” Porthos murmurs, buried in the grass, sprawled on his back. Sylvie plops Mattie on him for a cuddle, and Mattie burrows in, Porthos’ arms wrapping him in a hug. 

Sylvie looks across at Athos, to find a smile from him. He’s frowning at her, though, a thoughtful, irritable look on his face. She’s pretty sure the irritation is for himself. That look is usually a precursor to brooding. She arranges her face to ask him ‘what?’ and he scowls. 

“Are you jealous, Athos?” Aramis asks, sounding delighted. “I should flirt with your wife more often! This is brilliant!” 

Aramis leans close to her and brushes a kiss to her cheek, murmuring nonsense. Sylvie snorts and pushes him away, laughing at his antics. Mattie, watching from his snuggle with Porthos, laughs along with her. She gets a smile from him when she looks his way, his little round face beaming back at her, happy just because his Mama’s happy. She looks back at Athos, who looks sour. 

“Oh Christ, you are jealous?” Sylvie asks. 

“Not of Aramis,” Athos says quickly, as if that makes it better. Sylvie laughs, but there’s something a little bitter about it. She remembers being twenty, distinctly. It was terrible. 

“Do you remember being twenty?” Sylvie asks, with more incredulity this time. “Do you remember the sex, the relationships, the terrible people you fell into bed with? You’re jealous?”

“I remember being twenty,” Athos says. 

“He remembers being twenty and male Silver,” Porthos rumbles, still not opening his eyes. “He doesn’t remember being twenty and a woman.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Athos snaps. “I’m allowed to be a little jealous that other people…”

“Athos, Christ,” Sylvie says. 

“You’re not a woman, uncle Porthos,” Mattie says, laughing and poking at Porthos’ chest. 

“Nope,” Porthos agrees, rolling to his feet, holding Mattie. “Let’s get Jimmy and find an ice cream truck, Li’l Bit.”

Porthos moves off, head bowed to talk to Mattie, who rides in his arms. Sylvie watches them go. 

“I’ll go, um, help D with the kite,” Aramis says, scuttling away. 

Sylvie watches him, go, too, and hears d’Artagnan laughing a moment later, glancing their way. She wonders what Aramis has said. She turns back to Athos. He’s staring stoically straight ahead, that mournful, martyred look on his face. She knew, from the very start, that his ‘tortured soul’ would be something she loved him despite of not because of. She’s too down to earth to follow his convoluted, internal thoughts. Too outward looking. 

“Your jealousy is ridiculous and unfounded,” Sylvie says, gently. 

“You have loved other people, though,” Athos says. 

“Yes. I might even love people again. I love people now. Is it a problem? We made a commitment to one another, to build a life together. I like the life we’ve built.”

“So do I,” Athos murmurs. 

“And you know I love you,” Sylvie says. “So what’s the problem?”

“Just listening to you talking happily about all the men you bedded,” Athos mumbles, flushing. 

“Athos! Listen to yourself! We were discussing terrible past sexual encounters! I was remembering being young and trying to find something and just finding nothing, empty sex and relationships that went nowhere and, I don’t know. It was good, I was happy. I enjoyed it, finding a place for myself in the world.”

“Sorry,” Athos says, grimacing. “Porthos is probably right. Probably different, being a man.”

“Probably, maybe. I don’t know. Are you really telling me you had fantastic sex when you were in your twenties? Remember, before you answer- you’ve told me about Anne.”

“That was good sex,” Athos says, then winces. 

“It was passionate, and insane,” Sylvie says, then she drains her glass of wine. “Love, sex, whatever. I don’t care, Ath. I love you, I love our children, I love this. Being here with you. Or I do, when you’re not being a grump. What’s got you so bad tempered, anyway?”

“Porthos,” Athos says, pouting. Sylvie shakes her head and crawls over to kiss it away, which is what he always wants when he pouts. 

“Why has Porthos got you grumpy?” Sylvie asks. “Usually him being home and around a bit more makes you happy.”

“He hasn’t been around a bit more,” Athos says, plaintive now. 

Sylvie laughs and shakes her head again, pushing her hair off her face and shoulders, pulling him until he tips forward with a groan, face pressing to her neck. 

“God I’m pathetic,” he says. 

“Oh yeah, completely and totally,” Sylvie says. “Entirely. Tell him you want to see him more, if you want to see him more. Why are you acting like a teenager who’s crush has said ‘no’?”

“Because. He’s got Aramis, now,” Athos says, muffled by her skin, lips continuing to move against her neck even when he stops talking. 

“We’re happy for them, remember?” Sylvie says. 

“I am! I just wish he wasn’t so happy and still came to have nice sex with me and drink coffee,” Athos says. 

“No you don’t,” Sylvie says. “You really don’t. He’s happy, Athos. Porthos is happy. Really and truly happy, and not just content. He likes his work, he likes Aramis, he’s enjoying himself. Have you noticed the clothes he wears? How easy and open he is about his body? He went in the sprinklers with the kids, last weekend, without a shirt and in his swimming trunks, completely unselfconscious. He lay around half naked on our lawn most of the afternoon, with Roo, sunbathing. God, he’s happy.”

Athos quiets and snuffles a bit, then pulls back. He’s smiling, now, and looks much happier himself. Sylvie cups his cheek and gives him her sternest look. 

“Okay. I’m happy for him,” Athos says. 

“Yes, you are. Are you going to stop being completely ridiculous?”

“Yes. Ah, sorry. For acting like that.”

“Yeah, I’m owed it,” Sylvie says. “I really am. You just completely mansplained your way over me, you know that, right? And had a ridiculous emotional moment that- you stupid berk.”

“Sorry,” Athos says, grimacing. “I could go buy you an ice-cream, to make it up?”

“No need for that,” Porthos says, coming up the hill. “Jim thought of it already. Not that he has anything to make up.”

“I got you strawberry, Mum,” James says, coming along behind Porthos, an ice cream cone in either hand. He starts to hand her the chocolate one, then shakes his head and gives her the pink strawberry one instead. “I didn’t get one for you, though, Dad.”

“That’s okay,” Athos says. “Do I owe you anything, Orpheus?”

“Nah,” Porthos says, plonking down beside Sylvie, licking ice cream off his hand. 

“Where’s Matthew?” Sylvie asks, looking around. 

He appears right then, cone carried carefully in both hands, steps careful, careful. He comes over, eyes on his ice cream, and sinks slowly down between her and Athos. 

“He wanted to carry it himself,” Porthos says. “Only dropped it once. They gave him a new one.”

“I got blueberry the first time,” Matthew says. “Then I got one with bits of fudge, like Porthos.”

“Why did you call him Or-fuss, Dad?” James asks, sitting in Athos’ lap. 

“Let me have a lick of your chocolate and I’ll tell you,” Athos says. 

“You can get the drips, I guess,” James says, holding out his cone for Athos to sort out. 

“It’s just a nickname. Like Porthos calls you Jim, or Jimmy, and we call Matthew Mattie, and Rose Roo,” Athos says. 

“And Porthos calls us all L’il Bit?” James asks. “That’s from a film. He told us. What’s Orpheus from?”

“Also a film,” Athos says. Porthos roars with laughter. 

“Your Dad has trouble sleeping, sometimes,” Porthos explains, still giggling. “I used to get him off no problem, by reading him bed-time stories, like I do for you guys.”

“With the voices?” Matthew asks. 

“Nah. Monotone. Off he’d go, like a good little baby. He used to get, uh, he’d drink a lot and beg me to carry him to bed and read to him,” Porthos says. “Started saying I was his Orpheus.”

“Wow,” Matthew says. “That sounds nice. I like being carried to bed. Will you be my Orpheus, too, Pop?”

Sylvie listens to the boys talking to Porthos about nicknames, watching Constance taking photos of Aramis and d’Artagnan fighting over who gets to fly the kite. When James finishes his ice cream, he puts an end to the fight by going and claiming it for himself. Matthew looks at his ice cream, looks after his brother, looks at his ice cream, then thrusts the rest of his cone at Athos and runs off after James. He looks so little, running through the field. Sylvie watches him fly into Constance’s arms and smiles. 

“I remember being twenty,” Porthos says. 

Sylvie turns sharply, exasperated at him for bringing that back up. Athos is up and wandering after the boys, though. Sylvie relaxes and nods. 

“Probably bit different, being trans and all, but yeah. I remember being a woman. All them eyes on you, all that flirting. It bugs me, sometimes, the way Aramis flirts with servers and shop workers.”

“Athos at least doesn’t flirt, but he does do the polite gendered manners thing, sometimes,” Sylvie says. 

“God, he does, doesn’t he? A handshake for the men, a question about journeys and cars, a peck on the cheek for women. He clocked me as female, when he first met me, and I wasn’t confident enough to correct him.”

“He’s learning.”

“He is. He’s educating himself, too, not relying on us to do it. He’s a good guy,” Porthos says, then stretches and yawns. “I’m knackered. I might gather Aramis up and head home.”

“Athos misses you,” Sylvie says, then huffs, annoyed with herself. Athos isn’t her child, and his relationship with Porthos is none of her business. 

“I know that,” Porthos says, getting to his feet. “Can’t fix it, right now. We’re fine. If he gets grumpy about it, tell him to piss off. There’s nothing really wrong and we’ve talked about it, he shouldn’t be being a grouch.”

Sylvie nods and Porthos leans to give her a sort of hug, then wanders off towards the kite fliers. Aramis runs to jump into his arms, and she hears both their laughter. They return to gather their things together, and then they leave, arms around each other. Constance comes up and sits beside her, so Sylvie’s not alone for long. She doesn’t feel like being alone, right now. 

“Want to see the photos?” Constance asks, wriggling her phone in Sylvie’s direction. 

“No,” Sylvie says. 

“Okay. What’s up?” Constance asks. 

“Nothing. Just- do you ever just get irritated with d’Artagnan for not being a woman?”

“I’m bisexual, and mostly dated girls before D. I get annoyed about that all the time,” Constance says, laughing. “It’s not actually any better, though, when everyone’s female.”

“I know,” Sylvie says. “Grass is always greener, though.”

“You get some Porthos-therapy?” Constance asks, then laughs. “God. Those boys think Porthos is magic. They get a cuddle from him, and their worries melt away.”

“They adore each other, all of them. It’s very sweet,” Sylvie says. 

“Yes,” Constance says. “Do you think Porthos ever gets annoyed with them? For being cis?”

“All the time,” Sylvie says, smiling. “Don’t we all get annoyed that we’re not all the same? I see your point. Alright. I love Athos as is, and would not want him to change unless he wanted it himself.”

“Mm. Gender’s fluid, anyway. What you really want is for him to have had a specific set of experiences. But, you know, he wouldn’t have anyway. The reason Porthos and you grumble about it together so happily is you had a similar experience. The reason Porthos comes to d’Artagnan sometimes instead of you is because you had a family. Sometimes it’s nice, to just be understood a little bit, to share experiences.”

Sylvie pours herself more wine and stretches her legs out in front of her, changing the topic of conversation, looking at the photos afterall. Athos joins them, after a while, and then Constance gets up and she and d’Artagnan leave. Mattie and James keep playing with the kite, and Sylvie stretches out with Athos, Athos on his back, her head resting on his arm. 

“I am sorry about earlier,” Athos says, fingers weaving into her hair. “It was a moment of jealousy.”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” Sylvie says. “Long week.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah. Take me on a picnic, surround me with friends and family, and be extra nice to me,” Sylvie says, smiling, tilting her head to get a kiss from him. 

“What then?” Athos asks. 

“Mm. Do the packing up, while I go have a turn with the kite? Buy chips on the way home for dinner. We need to pick up Rosie from Lena’s. We should do that, first, because she’s picky about chips.”

“Anything you want, love,” Athos says, kissing her again. 

She relaxes for a while, enjoying his quiet company, then goes to have a fly of the kite, her boys cheering her on, Athos cleaning up.


End file.
